


Meetings end in Journeys

by R00bs_Teacup



Series: porthos and treville vignettes in a universe [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 19:07:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10837536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: Treville is meeting Porthos's friends, but Porthos seems as nervous as Treville is.





	Meetings end in Journeys

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CanadianGarrison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadianGarrison/gifts).



Treville is a Lieutenant-Colonel in the british army, in his forties, has faced down Taliban and toddlers and all kinds of threats, and here he is, nervous about meeting some Very Nice People. By Porthos’s accounts they sound kind of nice, kind of arseholes. Porthos is very fond of them, though. Treville reaches for Porthos’s hand, but Porthos waves him off and grumps against the window. He’s been doing that most of the bus journey, which isn’t settling Treville’s nerves any. Porthos’s bad temper is not reassuring. He woke up early this morning and was looking forward to a nice quiet slow morning, but as soon as Porthos woke he was up and demanding a towel and getting in a dig about Treville not going running and demanding they go running and then getting annoyed when Treville left him behind while running. Treville isn’t sure what’s brought the grumps on, but it seems surly, to him, for Porthos to be bad tempered when he, Treville, is nervous. For the first time in years. Not that he’s told Porthos he’s nervous, per say. Not exactly mentioned it. Porthos asked, but Treville had denied it, in fact. So maybe the grumps is not surly. Treville gives Porthos’s thigh an apologetic pat and gets batted away again.

 

“Travel sick?” Treville asks, trying to sound sympathetic. He is sympathetic. Mostly. Sort of.

 

“No,” Porthos says. “Why? Or did you mean you are?”

 

“I was asking about you,” Treville confirms. “You seem… put out.”

 

Porthos snorts, but doesn’t reply. Treville sighs and slumps further into the seat, frustrated with himself and Porthos and this whole trip. They’re going to Aramis’s for lunch, for a nice relaxed easy way for Treville to meet Porthos’s friends. He’s surprised he hasn’t run into Athos at Porthos’s, but he’s beginning to suspect Porthos engineers it that way on purpose. Judging by Porthos’s mood, Treville isn’t the only one who’s nervous.

 

“Are they going…” Treville stops. “I mean, do they know how old I am?”

 

“If you’re forty-eight they do, if you’ve lied they don’t,” Porthos says.

 

“Why would I lie? What are you trying to say?”

 

“Nothing,” Porthos says, biting the word off before  the ‘ng’ sound.

 

Treville doesn’t try to make conversation after that, just sits quietly. They ride the bus right out of the city, and Porthos rings the bell for a stop jammed into the verge, everything gone but the pole and an empty case for timetables. They’re right on a double-lane road which is busy, but Porthos seems unpeterbed. He walks along the verge, making sure to keep a foot ahead of Treville, and springs lightly over a style. Treville follows. It’s cold, he’s tired, he’s nervous, and Porthos is being an arse, and Treville finds his own mood sinking steadily as they slop across two fields to a small road, barely a track. It’s a steep hill and Treville catches Porthos up without thinking, lost in his own gloom, and gets a glower. They walk side by side, though, after that. Porthos stops at the top, at a turn for a drive with a post box and a sign saying ‘Gables’. He shuts his eyes and sighs, shakes his head, and takes Treville’s hand, turning them down the pot-holed track. There’s a gate at the bottom, then a converted barn house, all glass and wood, three shiny cars out the front. A dog comes bounding out barking but it’s tail wags and the barks turn friendly, recognising Porthos, and it comes and jumps up. Porthos finally smiles, letting go Treville’s hand to ruffle the pup’s ears. Treville rests a hand on Porthos’s back to steady him, though a puppy the dog isn’t small.

 

“Porthos, don’t let her jump up! It’s a bad habit. Honestly,” A tall slim man says, following the dog out.

 

This, Treville thinks, must be Aramis. He’s too tall to be Athos, who Porthos teases for being short, and there’s grey in his neat beard and pulled back hair, so it can’t be d’Artagnan, who Porthos calls a puppy and seems very young. Aramis is in jeans and a jumper and bare feet, and he picks his way over the rough drive tentatively, rubbing his arms. He grins at Treville and then gives Porthos a stern look.

 

“Right. Down, girl,” Porthos says. “Get us in trouble, you will.”

 

“You must be Treville,” Aramis says, holding out a hand.

 

“Yep,” Treville agrees. “Must be. No one’s ever told me otherwise. And you are Aramis?”

 

“Nobody’s every refuted it,” Aramis says, laughing, shaking Treville’s hand warmly. “Welcome to my home, thanks for making the trek on the bus I did suggest Porthos co-ordinate with Athos, but he bit my head off. Come on in, it’s fucking freezing and I’m still in my pyjamas, just pulled on jeans when Porthos texted you were off the bus.”

 

“Lazy,” Porthos says, already heading for the front door. “I’ve been up hours.”

 

“Have you? Why on earth?” Aramis says, laughing again, leading Treville in.

 

Treville gets a tour of the house, smaller than expected but only because the livingroom takes up most of the downstairs and up is just three rooms under the slanted roof, the flat of the extension given over to a garden. Porthos vanishes off somewhere and Treville’s left with Aramis, listening to the man enthuse over his conversion, his architect, his designer. He’s got a soft voice, and when the subject passes over Porthos he always sounds very fond. It makes Treville smile and by the time they settle in the kitchen with cups of tea Treville’s been put entirely at his ease.

 

“I’ll have to abandon you at some point, to get properly dressed,” Aramis says. “Tea first, though. I’m not a barbarian. I’ll see if I can dig Porthos out, too, if Athos hasn’t arrived by then.”

 

“I’m happy on my own,” Treville says. “I can just sit.”

 

“That would make me a terrible host. Now, seeing as I have you to myself for the moment, give me a leg up on ‘who knows most’ and tell me about yourself. You were in the army with Porthos?”

 

Aramis asks a few questions then gets excited when Treville mentions having been to Chile last summer and abandons his goal of knowing things. Treville admits to speaking limited Spanish and Aramis is happy as anything. Treville thinks he’s probably won at least one of Porthos’s friends over.

 

“Did you know I’m Chilean, and trying to charm me, or is this the coincidence it seems?” Aramis asks after a bit, not sounding like he minds, still smiling warmly at Treville.

 

“I did not know. I did know you speak Spanish though, so perhaps a little of both,” Treville says.

 

Aramis’s head comes up and a moment later the dog barks and Treville hears wheels on the gravel. He and Aramis head out the front and see Porthos plus dog standing in front of a newly arrived car, out of which climbs a man who, by his slight height, is Athos. He gives the dog a scratch behind the ears, presses a hand to Porthos’s chest, then comes over with his hands in the pockets of his jacket. He’s more smartly dressed than Aramis, but his hair’s a mess and his beard is hardly neat. He grins at Aramis then gives Treville a sweeping look-over.

 

“Good, you’re here,” Aramis says, kissing Athos’s lips. “You can do hosting while I get dressed.”

 

“He’s in his jim jams,” Porthos says, heading away from the house still plus dog, not looking back at them. He still sounds pissed off.

 

“Wouldn’t take that personally,” Aramis says, watching Porthos’s retreating back. “He’s not cross with you. Or me. Possibly Athos…”

 

“Shut up,” Athos says. “Go get clothes on. And socks. And - Aramis, I’m not cutting that out of your hair again if it gets tangled.”

 

“Elastic bands are perfectly adequate hairties,” Aramis says, with the greatest dignity, then he ruins it by giggling and running up the stairs.

 

Athos heads to the kitchen, indicating Treville is to follow with a single jerk of the head. He makes coffee, to Treville's relief – the tea Aramis made is full of loose leaves and tastes smoky. Athos gives Treville’s mostly full tea cup an amused look before removing it with a sniff.

 

“Lapsang Suchong,” Athos says.

 

“Sorry?” Treville asks, wrapping around his coffee mug.

 

“The tea,” Athos says. “Never accept tea from Aramis. He’s awful.”

 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Treville says, taking a sip of coffee. His eyes fall shut on a groan before he can stop himself, and when he opens his eyes Athos is giving him a smug look across the table.

 

“Always accept coffee from me.”

 

“Athos is the coffee god,” a voice says, from the back door. Treville turns and finds a gangly youth in wellies leaning there. “d’Artagnan. You’re Treville.”

 

“Shoes,” Athos says.

 

d’Artagnan kicks off his boots and comes in, shutting the back door and scrabbling about in cupboards for a cup before helping himself to coffee. He sits beside Athos and smiles at Treville.

 

“You’re Treville,” he says again.

 

“Yes,” Treville agrees. “I have been told so often, today.”

 

“Porthos natters about you,” d’Artagnan says, barely holding back laughter now,  Treville is sure.

 

“Charles,” Athos says, rolling his eyes.

 

d’Artagnan snorts loudly and bursts out laughing, holding onto Athos’s arm. Eventually he bubbles out, resting his forehead against Athos’s shoulder and grinning at Treville from curtains of shoulder-length hair. He does look very young, barely more than a teenager. Treville has it on good authority from Porthos he’s in his late twenties, but he doesn’t look it.

 

“I hope he hasn’t told you something that caused that much hilarity,” Treville says, raising his eyebrow.

 

“Oh, no, no!” d’Artagnan says, sitting up. “Nothing bad. We just tease him, no it’s not you! You’re lovely I’m sure. Where _is_ Porthos, anyway?”

 

“Hiding in the Franks’ apple orchard with Lobo,” Athos says.

 

“Hiding?” d’Artagnan says, checking under the table nonsensically. “Why?”

 

“He’s grumpy,” Treville says, feeling his own mood sink again thinking about it.

 

“Come on!” d’Artagnan says, slapping his thighs and bouncing up, waving his hands until Treville stands, too.

 

Athos stays placidly drinking coffee. Treville follows d’Artagnan, uncertain. d'Artagnan gets their shoes and then links their arms, leading Treville, chattering away about school and his students and something about pigs. Treville listens, a little bewildered. He’s lead over a style and along a path and over a gate, into an orchard, and then d’Artagnan stops. He points through the trees and Treville sees Porthos, lying in the grass on a blanket, the dog sprawled against his side. d'Artagnan gives Treville’s arm a pat and turns, heading back. Treville threads through the trees to Porthos, and sits beside him.

 

“Hi,” Porthos says, looking up at Treville red-eyed.

 

“What’s the matter?” Treville asks, resting a hand on Porthos’s stomach, stroking his cheek. “You’re upset. What’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing. Nothing here, nothing about this,” Porthos says, voice strained with frustration. “Wanted this to go well, didn’t want… well, this.”

 

He indicates his red eyes and sniffs, rubbing his face. Treville rests a hand against his stomach again and rubs soothing circles, trying to comfort him. He decides to just wait for Porthos to tell him whatever’s going on.

 

“I like Athos, he makes good coffee. Aramis seems kind, d’Artagnan enthusiastic and young! He is very young,” Treville says.

 

“Isn’t he?” Porthos says, smiling. “It’s great. He’s not had an easy life always, but he’s so untouched by it in some ways. It’s nice. I’m not upset, by the way. I have a fucking cold.”

 

Treville blinks, then frowns. Porthos glowers up at him, and makes a rather disgusting snorting noise before sitting up and pulling a wad of tissues out of his pocket, blowing his nose. It disturbs the dog and she sits up too, tail wagging.

 

“Why does you having a cold mean you get up at a ridiculous hour of the morning, make me go for a run, grump at me mercilessly, and then lie in a field?!” Treville asks, entirely baffled by Porthos’s reaction to feeling a bit poorly.

 

“I feel like an idiot,” Porthos mutters, scrubbing at his face and snuffling again, letting out a little cough.

 

“Uh-huh,” Treville says. Porthos laughs and leans into him, wrapping an arm around him.

 

“Oh, you are warm,” Porthos says, still muffled by congestion. “I’m being weird, aren’t I?”

 

“Yes,” Treville agrees, rubbing Porthos’s back.

 

“I wanted you to meet them, I dunno. I had a picture of how this would go. Besides, Athos pissed me right off on Friday, still a bit stewed about that,” Porthos says. “Come on, let’s go inside.”

 

He holds Treville’s hand this time and presents himself to the kitchen a little ruefully. Aramis is back, looking exactly the same dressed as in his pyjamas. He smiles, then frowns, then gives Porthos a stern look.

 

“You _do_ have a cold,” Athos says evenly, not looking around, back to the door. “I told you.”

 

“Yeah well, I did not have one on Friday,” Porthos grouches, stomping over and drawing out a chair next to Athos’s. Athos rests a hand briefly on his back and passes him a cup of tea. “Is this Aramis’s shit?”

 

“No. Normal tea with honey and a bit of lemon,” Athos says.

 

“My shit?” Aramis says. “My tea is the best. You liked it, didn’t you Treville? You drunk a whole cup.”

 

“Treville doesn’t drink tea,” Porthos mutters. “He drinks coffee. Don’t be absurd. You didn’t, did you, Trev? I know you were nervous, but there are limits to making a good impression.”

 

Treville flushes and sits down getting himself coffee before Porthos can mutter anything else embarrassing. d'Artagnan’s having hysterics again, damp eyes beaming at Porthos over his arms where he’s buried.

 

“You are cute,” Aramis says, as if continuing a conversation. Porthos reaches over and tugs the elastic band in Aramis’s hair, making Aramis yelp.

 

“I’ll get the scissors,” d’Artagnan says.

 

It’s like that all afternoon. They tease each other, and have half conversations where the other half has either already taken place previously or seems to not need to be spoken. Treville follows as best he can. They’re all welcoming, and they ask him curious but polite questions. A gentle kind of interrogation, Treville realises. He’s ok with that, with people being protective of Porthos. Porthos himself gets more and more snuffly and coughish through the afternoon, drooping against Aramis and eventually falling asleep sitting up, much to d’Artagnan’s amusement. d'Artagnan takes a photo and beams.

 

“I’ll have to make up with him,” Athos says, looking at Porthos as he snores and drools against Aramis. “So I can drive him home.”

 

“Why’s he annoyed?” Treville asks, also watching Porthos. Aramis catches him watching and nudges Porthos over to Treville’s shoulder. Porthos barely wakes, just shifts against Treville, who wraps an arm around him, and goes back to snoring.

 

“Just suggested he was getting a cold,” Athos says, then grins. “In front of his students. They were teasing him. I didn’t help any.”

 

“’ _You_ get _colds_ Mr Vallon?!’” d’Artagnan says in a high pitched voice, laughing again. “’but Mr Vallon! You _never_ get sick!’”

 

“It’s Porthos’s boast, at the start of the year,” Aramis says, smiling fondly at d’Artagnan. “He’s more or less correct, he doesn’t catch the start of term bug. I always get it and give it to Athos, and d’Artganan’s still only in his third year teaching and gets sick at least twice a term.”

 

“Porthos always was resilient,” Treville says, remembering the time their unit all got the flu. All except Porthos, who remained cheerful and healthy the whole time, and was very annoying about it too.

 

“Was he as irritating about it at eighteen as he is now?” d’Artagnan asks.

 

“Yes,” Treville says, without hesitating, making them all laugh. “He was kind, though. He brought me tea. Which is when he learnt ‘Treville doesn’t drink tea’. I may have given him an anti-tea rant. I was a little delirious.”

 

Athos leans over Treville and presses a hand to Porthos’s chest, waking him gently. Porthos glares at Athos, who makes a face and shrugs. Porthos shrugs back, and that seems to be that: they get a lift home and don’t have to trek back to the bus. Porthos sleeps the whole way home, against Treville in the back of Athos’s car. Athos drives them to his and Porthos’s and Treville, who had half begun to suspect Athos didn’t live there, watches him unlock the front with interest.

 

“Why do you share?” Treville asks.

 

“He needed it, a long time ago, and we got into the habit,” Athos says. “See you tomorrow.”

 

He retreats behind the door Porthos pointed out as belonging to him, and Treville is left to lead a blinking, sleepy Porthos up to the bedroom. Porthos follows and lets Treville undress him and sits on the bed, holding onto Treville’s hips, gazing up at him gravely.

 

“You’ve met them now,” Porthos whispers.

 

“Yes, they’re nice,” Treville says, smiling, distracted by Porthos’s face, his deep eyes, touches his cheek again stroking against the stubble there. “You’re nice too. I like you.”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos whispers, a little hoarse, still giving Treville that intense look. “You know them now, and like them, and they like you. Part of the family. Got four of us to come home for.”

 

“Oh,” Treville says, cupping Porthos’s face in both of his hands, cradling, bending to kiss him. “Oh. Yes, I’ll come home. As far as I can promise, I promise.”

 

“When?” Porthos asks, eyes shut.

 

“Yeah, soon,” Treville says. “Six weeks. I’ve got a commission. It’s not official yet, should come through next week or so.”

 

“Where?” Porthos asks, snuffling a little.

 

“No where good,” Treville admits. “Afghanistan.”

 

Porthos’s hand shakes, then steadies. He pulls Treville down, forcing him to kneel, to let go. He takes hold of Treville’s chin and opens his eyes, looking right into Treville’s.

 

“I’ll make sure you do everything to come back,” Porthos says.

 

Treville nods, not looking away. The moment is broken when Porthos has to jerk away to sneeze loudly into his shoulder, twice. Treville gives his knee a pat and finds him some warm pyjamas, goes to make him tea. He spends the evening fussing over Porthos and reading, and when Porthos falls asleep after dinner he puts things aside and just sits, thinks about Porthos carefully making ties for Treville, binding him here, making sure he comes home. Carefully, steadily, cleverly tying him to this place, to Porthos. Treville likes the idea of having that. A kind of family.


End file.
